CHRIST A REALITY.

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conscious of our beggary in respect of everything else, wretched, and miserable, and

He

poor, and blind, and naked, we go, not expecting much, perhaps not asking much. There may be hours of prostration when we ask only for rest; we pray for the cessation of suffering; we seek repose from conflict with ourselves, and with God's providence. But God gives us more. is more generous than we have dared to believe. He gives us joy; He gives us liberty; He gives us victory; He gives us a sense of self-conquest, and of union with Himself in an eternal friendship. On the basis of that single experience of Christ as a reality, because a necessity, there rises an experience of blessedness in communion with God, which prayer expresses like a Revelation. Such devotion is a jubilant Psalm.

9

4

XIV.

DRAW NIGH TO GOD, AND HE WILL DRAW NIGH TO YOU. JAMES 4: 8.

GOD only knows what are the prevailing habits of Christians of our own day, respecting the duties of the closet. On no subject is it more necessary to speak with reserve, if we would speak justly, of the experience of others. Each man knows his own, and for the most part, only his own. That is not likely to be a truthful or a candid severity, which would bring sweeping accusations against the fidelity of God's people in their intercourse with Him. We should believe no such charges. They are sometimes made in a spirit which invites one to say to the censorious brother: Take heed to thyself; Satan hath desired to have thee.'

MODERN PRAYERFULNESS.

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It cannot reasonably be doubted, that multitudes of Christ's followers are struggling daily to get nearer to God. Perhaps, of all the recent treasures of hymnology, no other lines have thrilled so many Christian hearts, or called forth so deep a throb of sympathy as the following, from one of our living poets, viz.:

'Nearer, my God, to Thee, —

Nearer to Thee;

Ev'n though it be a cross

That raiseth me,

Still, all my song shall be,

Nearer, my God, to Thee,

Nearer to Thee!'

None are more sensible of their failures in prayer, than those Christians to whom these words have become a song of the heart, more precious than rubies. Yet such Christians are more successful than they seem to themselves.

It cannot be proved that the Modern Church-taking into account its numbers,

the variety of rank, of nation, of temperament, and of opinion which it embraces, the breadth of its Christian character, and the energy of its benevolent activities—is inferior, in respect of the spirit of prayer, in its most scriptural and healthy forms, to the Church of any other, even of apostolic, times. It is often affirmed, to the discredit of the modern developments of piety; but, I repeat, it cannot be proved, nor, in view of the aggressive revival of religion which seems to be sweeping over Protestant Christendom, is it probably true. It is not the law of Divine Influence, to bestow such measure of power, when and where the spirit of prayer is dying out. The law of procedure, in reference to such grand strides of progress, is rather: For all this, will I be inquired of by the house of Israel.' The language of fidelity, then, should not be mistaken for the language of suspicion and of croaking.

MODERN ACTIVITY.

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Yet, this doubtless is true, of the tendencies of our modern Christian life—that they embody certain centrifugal forces, as related to a life of solitude and stillness. Modern piety goes outward, in duties and activities, extrinsic to a secret life with God. It does this by an inborn instinct, which perhaps was never more vigorous in its operation than now. This is no evil. It is a growth, rather, upon the usage of other ages. It is an advance, certainly, upon the piety of the cloister and the cowl. It is a progress of religious life, too, beyond that of the early denominational contentions of Protestantism. Those contentions may have been a necessary preliminary to it, but it is an advance upon the spirit and the aims of them. It is a salutary growth.

But, like every large, rapid growth, it involves a peril peculiar to itself—a peril which we cannot avoid, but which, by wise forethought, we may encounter with safe